"We can always do it the traditional Triskelion way," said Pat.
"No way," I replied. They teased me about the fact that in my parent's lives' pleasure was defined only in terms of intellectual pursuits. Me, I fully enjoyed being perverted by Triskelion standards. And with that we wrestled under the sheets some more. "Time out," I told them after our fourth efforts to kill ourselves with pleasure. "Listen up," I told them from somewhere underneath the sheets. "I think it is time that we start planning what sort of family we want."
"We want artists," said Pat.
"We want musicians," added Michael.
"And Presidents," they said together.
"Come on get serious. I need some idea of what you want. It is going to take me at least six weeks to assemble three eggs. Eight weeks if you count the incubation time I'll need to get up to implantable embryos."
"You said three eggs?" asked Mike with a frown.
"Sure, all triad births are multiple, one male, one female and one triune."
"That means they will have low birth weights," said Pat. "I don't like that they may get sick."
"They will be small but full term. Besides my genes will help keep them healthy."
"What do you mean your genes," said Mike with what sounded like incredulity.
"Mike, I wasn't speaking figuratively when I referred to them as my children. They will be triploidal, that is, they will have a full set of genes from all three of us."
"I didn't know that. This means they would look like, you," Mike said slowly.
This conversation had suddenly taken an odd turn and I began to feel uneasy. "Well, yes. It is not uncommon for children to look like their parents," I replied a little bewildered.
"I don't want your genes in my kids," he said flatly.
His words hit me like a slap to the face and I just sat for a moment feeling numb. Then my mind restarted and I understood what was going on. "I see," I said trying to keep down a rising tide of anger. "Everything was fine when you thought it was only going to be your sperm and her egg. (I had just driven past anger and was catching up to furious.) But I am black and Mr. White bread here doesn't want any black babies! Admit it!"
"Yes, damn it yes!" he shouted. We have a special social position in this community. And that is not going to be jeopardized by have a bunch of pickaninnies running around this house. You can and you will make them white."
"Shut up Mike!" Pat said frantically. "You're going to screw up everything."
After a moment of silence, I said quietly, "I can make them white but then they wouldn't be my children."
"Who the hell asked you to be their parent, you nigger bitch."
I couldn't respond to that. I just left the
bedroom and went down stairs to sleep on the couch. I think I
cried that night more than the day Beloved Parent died. I heard
the sounds of crying upstairs but I was to hurt to care about
it.
Here I stand with head in hand,
turn my face to the wall.
If she's gone I can't go on,
feeling two foot small.
Ev'rywhere people stare,
each and ev'ry day.
I can see them laugh at me,
and I hear them say.
Hey, you've got to hide your love away.
Hey, you've got to hide your love away.
How can I even try,
I can never win,
hearing them, seeing them,
in the state I'm in.
How could she say to me
love will find a way?
Gather round all you clowns
Let me hear you say.
Hey, you've got to hide your love away.
Copyright 1997 by Dennis Tallent
You can e-mail Dennis at: tallent@earthlink.net
Dennis Tallent is a native son of the state of Texas; the direct desendent of an officer of the Texas Revolutionary Army. He is an active member of MENSA, The Libertarian Party and Tebala Shrine Temple. At the moment he is a nursing student at Northern Illinois University in Dekalb, Illinois.
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